


You (Don't) Try

by shan_love



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/F, Gen, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:05:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shan_love/pseuds/shan_love
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You try to forget about it, all of it. You do.<br/>Really.</p><p>One Shot. Set Post-TV Series (not comic-canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You (Don't) Try

You try to forget about it, all of it. You do. Really.

You try to forget the sound of her voice, husky and rich and _deep_ , like Jack and dark chocolate and Marlboro cigarettes all mixed together and, even though you don’t like _any_ of those things separately, together they made you (make you) feel right and whole and _alive_.

You try to forget that too. (You try to forget that most of all.)

You try to forget her eyes, how dark and soulful and _wild_ they are, like an animal’s, like a demons, a hunters, a _Slayers_ (like _yours_ ). How you can (always could) read them, read _her_ , like a book; and yeah, sometimes it’s written in another language, one you don’t know _how_ to read, but the pictures (and there are _always_ pictures, even if you sometimes pretend there aren’t) are each worth a _thousand_ words and you think (you _know_ ) it evens out.

You try to forget the wanting, the taking, the _having_. You try to forget _that_ with everything you are, however little that is anymore. You try because it’s dangerous, because it’s wrong; because it’s _seductive_ and neither of you is as strong as you used to (pretend to) be.

You wanted to _be_ her, once upon a time, and, once upon a time, you were. Everything’s gone sideways, upside down, and topsy-turvy since then and, even as you try to forget, you wonder when she became the one thing – the _only_ thing – that makes any sense.

You try to forget that, when she’s there, _here_ , writhing beneath and above and around you, there are moments when you don’t miss Heaven (because no matter what you’ve said, what you _say_ , you’re not over it; you’ll _never_ be over it. But that doesn’t matter. Not anymore), moments where you have _Faith_ again and for the first time too and it’s, _she’s_ , enough, so wonderfully, achingly, _enough_ it makes you want to cry and scream and laugh and, god, just _live_. And you haven’t wanted to live for what feels like a very, very long time.

Really, you try to forget everything that isn’t _here_ , that isn’t _this_ moment and the one directly following and you try to _remember_ how it felt to be gold even though you’re pretty sure you’re not even yellow anymore. You think you’re gray now, if you’re a color at all (and you try not to remember that she makes you feel gold again, inside _and_ out).

You try to forget that with one look, just _one_ , she can make you feel light again, like the young woman you _are_ but never really got the chance to _be_. You try to forget that she makes _you_ forget you were only fifteen, _fifteen_ , when your life was taken away because of a destiny you never asked for. You don’t, _can’t_ , forget that she’s the only other person in the world, maybe _ever_ , who’ll understand what it means to be ‘Chosen’. You do _try_ , sometimes, but never very hard or for very long. (You tell yourself it’s because you’re too busy trying to forget all the _other_ things but, well, who are you trying to fool, really?)

You try to forget about her scars, the big ones that lurk like demons (but not the kind so easily slayed) behind dark, haunted, eyes and the small ones that crisscross tan skin but, especially, the ones carved by your words, your actions, your _hands_. You try to forget the sounds she makes when you trace them with your fingertips, with your tongue, mapping out every inch of her in silent reverie, in silent _apology_ , because you (both) have so much to be sorry for.

You try to forget her scent, sharp and cool, like winters’ breath on glass, like the stones from the graveyards your every night (and hers too) seems to begin, and usually end, with. But the memory of grass and sweat and leather and laughter sticks to you long after she’s gone (after you’ve pulled her close and pushed her away all over again), leaving your sheets in tangles and your heart beating _way_ too fast for this to be anything _but_ the one thing you keep telling yourself it’s not.

You try to forget about her, any of her, _all_ of her. You really, _really_ do.

But it doesn’t stop you from waking up in the middle of the night, with her name on your lips and your body _burning_ , blood racing and raging beneath your skin, your breath coming too quick and your quivering insides long since turned to liquid fire.

It doesn’t stop the images in your head playing over and over, like a Top 40 track on the radio. Her body, both hard and soft (like velvet and steel), beneath your hands, your lips, your own. Her skin, so hot and smooth, salty with sweat, sticky with cum and the slightest trace of blood. Her hair, wavy and impossibly thick, falling around you like a curtain, no, like a _shield_ , an impenetrable barrier between the two of you and the rest of the world. Her mouth, teeth white and sharp (but not _too_ sharp) and her lips stretched wide, for once, not smirking but _smiling._ At you. _For_ you. (You don’t even bother trying to forget how beautiful she is when she smiles. Even you aren’t _that_ stupid.)

It doesn’t stop you from picking up the phone, from calling her, and it certainly doesn’t stop her from answering (even though you think, maybe, it should). And then you don’t have to _remember_ and you can’t _forget_ because, suddenly, she’s right _there_ and everything is…well, it’s not _perfect_ but it’s closer than you (either of you) have ever been before.

And, even though you tell yourself you’re trying, maybe you just don’t _want_ to forget. So, you don’t (won’t, _can’t_ ). Not now. Not ever.

And maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop trying.

 _That_ will be a day you’ll remember.


End file.
